


Magic Wands, Magic Wants

by Nen (Nenchen)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Aroused by card tricks, Author had too much fun with this, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Aziraphale picks up Crowley like it's nothing, Aziraphale wearing black, Banter, Bare Forearms, Carrying, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Frottage, Godparents Aziraphale and Crowley (Good Omens), Grumpy Crowley (Good Omens), Kissing, M/M, Magician Aziraphale (Good Omens), Making Out, Manhandling, Mentioned but not a lot aka noone is drunk, No orgasm, Please appreaciate the header, Rambling Crowley, Sexually charged drawing on of a moustache, Strong Aziraphale (Good Omens), Unrelated to any of the actually naughty parts, Warlock mention in the beginning, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:02:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28701861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nenchen/pseuds/Nen
Summary: Crowley has to sit through a private show – a magic show. It’s hard on him for reasons much different than expected.The problem with this was, well. It was demeaning, the whole thing. Yes. Demeaning. Bad tricks instead of the real miracles they were able to perform. That was the problem.His brain’s resolute resolve was demolished when Aziraphale came down the stairs wearing nothing but the most delighted of smiles. And a tuxedo. A black, modern-cut tuxedo and not a lick of tartan. The ridiculous phrase Aziraphale had once uttered resurfaced in his mind. Lick some serious butt. He’d love nothing more.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 47





	Magic Wands, Magic Wants

**Author's Note:**

> I started this in November, didn't write for all of december, rediscovered it in January and was like "Who wrote this??? That wasn't me. This is so good???" So I hope you're at least as delighted as I was.

  


It was an afternoon in the bookshop.

One of the sort that had become increasingly frequent in the aftermath of one mucked up apocalypse and the happenings which followed thereafter, which included swapping bodies with the hereditary enemy, getting carried off by respective pissed off bosses, scaring the ever-loving daylight out of said bosses, going to the Ritz, confessing at the Ritz, doing it at the Ritz and then becoming whatever it was they were now. Crowley hadn’t found a word for it yet, and Aziraphale’s insistence on using spouse, partner or husband was honestly just embarrassing, and Crowley pointedly ignored him each time.[1]

These afternoons did not differ much from how they usually had spent time at the bookshop together, except they touched now, in many ways. Thus, Crowley was currently working on his daily quota of evil by immobilizing his hereditary enemy by laying his feet on his lap, which combined nicely with the way Aziraphale had decided to fill his daily quote of good – by giving his _husband_ a nice foot rub. Since Aziraphale had apparently decided to double down on the do-gooding and call their sort-of-not-really-but-hey-we-kinda-raised-you godson and assumed antichrist, Warlock, Crowley was festering more evil by simply going on twitter. Distracted as he was, the conversation only filtered in slowly.

“Oh, your twelfth birthday is coming up? My congratulations, young Warlock.”

“You want us to come? Oh, dear boy, how lovely of you to think of us, but I fear we made your last party end up slightly disastrous, didn’t we?

“Oh, no, I couldn’t _possibly_ again-”

“The last time ended in disaster and you didn’t even-”

“Oh, alright, if you truly want me to, I’ll do the show for you. But no complaints and no throwing around food this time. Really, my boy.”

_Oh no._

“No, absolutely not.” Crowley said, head whipping up to glare at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale ignored him except for a bright smile and a movement of his thumb that had Crowley’s foot twitching as a knot loosened.

“Yes, we love you too. Greetings from your nanny. No, of course he didn’t say but I bet he would still sing you to sleep if you wanted. Yes, alright, I’ll ask. Hear you soon.”

Aziraphale ended the call and turned to Crowley, still smiling that smile.

“Warlock asked me to perform at his birthday again!”

_No. No no no, absolutely not, why in the devil’s name was this happening to him, no._

“Nooooo,” Crowley said, in a decidedly non-whining tone.

Aziraphale’s smile only widened.

“Apparently there were a few children who did, after all, appreciate my showmanship!”

_Shit, he was rapidly loosing ground._

“No, angel, come on. You could give them a real show! Especially now that our sides don’t look anymore. You don’t have to do your whole _thing_.”

“But I like doing my whole _thing_! Oh, I shall have to practice, you’ll help me, dear, won’t you?”

“Absolutely not.”

And thus, the next day Crowley found himself in the bookshop again, waiting for Aziraphale to get dressed and then perform some new magic tricks he’d apparently learned sometime since the apocalypse. The problem with this was, well. It was demeaning, the whole thing. Yes. Demeaning. Bad tricks instead of the real miracles they were able to perform. That was the problem.

His brain’s resolute resolve was demolished when Aziraphale came down the stairs wearing nothing but the most delighted of smiles. And a tuxedo. A black, modern-cut tuxedo and not a lick of tartan. The ridiculous phrase Aziraphale had once uttered resurfaced in his mind. Lick some serious butt. He’d love nothing more. He miracled himself a glass of whiskey, to have at least some form of support. Cinnamon and honey flavoured. He took a long swig before he said something.

“Do you really have to do this to me? I thought angels were the ones supposed to be merciful.”

“Now really, dear, you know better than that. And I assure you, you will like this performance, some of the tricks really are quite nifty. You like nifty. Also last time I checked, no one was forcing you to stay,” Aziraphale said, all excited smiles and sassily cocked eyebrow, and Crowley’s stomach was performing some _nifty tricks_ itself.

He grumbled out some incoherent response and stayed firmly seated, hoping the tight fit of his trousers would be enough to compress his filling erection. No, he wasn’t forced to stay but he couldn’t exactly move away now either. If Aziraphale found out about this, he was doomed. 

Aziraphale started with his show and soon Crowley was comfortable enough again, hot want still very much present but balanced out with fondness as Aziraphale worked through his routine, mucking up most of the tricks somehow, but still beaming all the while. Crowley incrementally relaxed into the sofa, answering with his usual repertoire of grumbling and groaning and sarcastic clapping. He could do this. He had done it before. Just like he had been to dinner with Aziraphale many times before. Master of hiding what his blood got up to, him.

The angel, however, apparently decided to completely obliviously obliterate his hopes and finally show a new trick. A card trick. And roll up his sleeves for this purpose.

“Now you see here, my sleeves are up and there is nowhere to hide cards. If you would please watch my hands very closely during this next trick, that would be lovely. Now, choose any card for me.”

“Huh?” Crowley answered, too busy processing bare forearms to process words.

“A card, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, voice still bright with laughter.

“Uh.” _Ace of hearts._ “Queen of spades.”

Aziraphale explained what the trick was supposed to do, but Crowley was too busy following his earlier demand and looking at his hands. Those fingers, while occasionally dropping a card, moved to mix and tug and play with them with deft precision. Quick, nimble hands. Crowley could basically hear his brain shut down, windows vista sound effect and all.

“Now, tell me, is this your card?” Aziraphale asked, holding up a card for Crowley to see.

It was a four.

“No,” he answered, flatly. Relieved.

He would have teased or groaned a bit more but his brain was still not getting quite enough blood to snark. He fiddled with his glass.

Aziraphale’s expression was surprised as he turned the card around to get a look at it.

“Oh dear. Let me try something else then.”

What Crowley expected was another session of Aziraphale fumbling with cards the way Crowley would fumble with his zip as soon as he got somewhere private. What happened instead was Aziraphale rounding the table and coming to stand in front of him. His head jerked when Aziraphale gently traced his jawline, leaning in a bit and…

“Is this your card then?”

Crowley blinked at the card, held up right before his eyes. It was the Queen of Spades.

“What. How.” Crowley said, too amazed to keep the amazement out of his voice.

He also was distracted slightly by the way Aziraphale was still standing so very close to him, close enough to smell him, to feel his breath, close enough for Crowley to just lean in and get whatever he wanted. But he couldn’t. No positive reinforcement. That son of a bitch Pavlov had taught him not to feed the dog when it was whistling. Or was it when he was whistling? Why had the guy been whistling when he fed his dog anyway. Served him right to get drooled on.

Speaking of drooling, he had rarely been more appreciative of his mouths capacity to become not-human.

Suddenly the angel’s mirthful expression turned into anguish.

“Oh no!” he moaned.

Crowley’s mind got jolted out of the gutter fast enough to almost go out of a wrong pipe.

“What, what’s wrong angel?” he asked, almost knocking the angel over in his haste to jump up and look around for possible threats.

Aziraphale grabbed onto his arm.

“I forgot the moustache!” Aziraphale cried out.

Crowley slowly turned towards him again, face carefully deadpan. Well, at least thoughts of possible Gabriel or Hastur had efficiently killed the mood. It didn’t make Aziraphale’s look of pouty despair less annoyingly endearing.

“The moustache.” Crowley said, conveying his opinion on the fuss without even raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, the moustache! It is an integral part of a magician’s attire and attitude. Oh, and I can’t recall where I put that blasted applicator after the last time, we did have to retreat rather hastily.”

Crowley blinked slowly, and since Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes behind the glasses, made sure that his expression conveyed the reaction.

He sat back down, relaxing into the pillows pointedly.

“Just miracle yourself a new one then.” he said, already knowing how this suggestion would be taken.

As predicted, Aziraphale’s pout gained.

“Oh, but it wouldn’t be the same. I don’t even quite remember the material, and even less so the colour. It just wouldn’t be the same.”

Crowley nodded slightly mockingly, trying to make his whole posture exude sarcastic empathy to hide the fondness underneath. Then he snapped his fingers, once. And held up the exact pencil that Aziraphale had used that day, so long ago in his car, out to the angel. 

The angel’s face broke into a wide smile, and he coyly fluttered his lashes at Crowley.

“Oh, that is the exact one! However did you know?”

“You put it on in my car that day, remember? Blocked the rear mirror for ages. Especially for someone who usually is oh so concerned about me driving safely.”

Aziraphale pulled a face, and for a second Crowley was concerned that this jab had actually landed.

“Oh, I remember now. You drove so fast and the mirror was so small, I got it crooked! I had to reapply five times, and my good handkerchief got all crummy. And now I don’t even have a mirror.” he said, having the gall to sound scolding.

He pouted again, shortly, before his face brightened up.

“Would you be a dear and draw it on for me?”

Crowley thought he must have heard him wrong.

“What? Why. You Have a perfectly good mirror upstairs.”

Now Aziraphale’s pout was back in full force.

“Yes, but it will take me forever to do it right and by then the show will have been interrupted for so long that I’ll have to restart. You are just much more talented with makeup, it will be over in a jiffy!”

Crowley took a long swig out of his tumbler.

Then he took another.

And then, before he could talk himself out of it, he set his glass down on the table with a decisive clink and patted the seat beside him.

“Come here then, so I can do it properly.”

Aziraphale smiled another of his sinus-clearing smiles that always made Crowley feel slightly dizzy, like staring right at an exploding star. Just more intense.

“Oh, thank you!” Aziraphale said and sat down, wiggling in his seat.

Crowley put one hand on his shoulder to balance himself and leaned in. Easy. Piece of cake. No, better than a piece of cake, cake free angel with fake moustache. Unlike last time. Now he only had to ignore every bit of his brain that was screaming for him to lean in further, to ignore the request for a silly moustache and just give into what he had wanted for the entire evening. 

He was trying very hard to focus on the space below the other’s nose. Not above the lips. No one was thinking about lips. Even if, when his eyes had flitted down to look at them for a millisecond, they looked pink and shiny and soft and perfectly kissable. Especially with the slight pout the angel was putting on to help him draw the moustache. The silly moustache the angel wanted for his even sillier magic show. Which was the most embarrassing thing to turn him on Crowley had found thus far, and he had admitted to the sock suspenders.

His hand moved from the Aziraphale’s shoulder to cup his face, thumb slightly pulling at his cheek to make the skin taut enough to draw on the first part of the moustache. Aziraphale’s face relaxed under his ministrations, eyelashes fluttering. Crowley could swear he heard him hum pleasedly as he moved his hand to the other cheek. The second part of the moustache was much harder. Not only was he drawing in a slightly awkward position with his arms crossed, but they also had to be symmetrical. And he could feel Aziraphale’s gaze on him, hot as he moved the applicator carefully over his soft skin. 

There was just the tiniest smudge between the two lines and Crowley, putting away the applicator, slightly wet his thumb with his tongue and moved to remove it, gently pulling at the other’s lips. His thumb caught Aziraphale’s lower lip, dragging it down slightly as they parted. He couldn’t move, could not look away, until Aziraphale took his hand and gently removed it.

The next moment Aziraphale’s other hand was in his hair, and his mouth was on Crowley’s, capturing his lips in a heated, passionate kiss. Crowley’s noise of surprise was swallowed, and soon turned into a groan. Aziraphale pulled him closer, the other hand letting go of his hand and moving to his hips, his lower back, slowly but inevitably pulling Crowley towards him, until he was seated in his lap. Aziraphale’s hand in his hair was alternating between petting hair and neck and tangling itself in the strands, gently pulling in just the way that made Crowley get goosebumps all over his skin. 

Crowley deepened the kiss, moving his hands from where they had been curled up against the other’s lapels to loop loosely around his midriff, smoothing along his spine, grabbing at his sides. When they were finally close enough for their hips to be flush, Crowley realized that Aziraphale was just as affected by all of this as he was. He moaned loudly as Aziraphale gripped his hips tighter and moved him effortlessly in a way that made them grind against each other. Their kisses and touches got more heated, more desperate, as Aziraphale kept moving the both of them against each other, Crowley’s head swimming from the manhandling, the pleasure, the thoughts of that damn outfit. He bucked into the movements, so close to relief finally after a whole evening of being on the edge. Then Aziraphale pulled away and he whined, chasing his mouth again. The other chuckled and granted him one more, before moving away again and speaking.

“What has you worked up so much this evening, darling?”

Crowley froze. Damn Aziraphale’s perceptiveness, even when they both were a mess. His brain decided to go the defensive route.

“Well, what about you? Feeling yourself with the ‘stache, angel? I told you in the 70’s, but nooo you didn’t believe me.”

“How very dare you compare these two! This is a part of a whole aesthetic. You actually thought that caterpillar was attractive in all forms. And, contrary to you, I can simply wipe this off after a few hours – instead of shaving it only after years and then begging every witness left to never mention it again.”

Crowley wanted to say something in defence of his facial hair choices, but then his gaze moved to Aziraphale’s own lips and he couldn’t hide his grin. 

“Well, angel, whatever you say. But at least my moustache didn’t smudge.”

“What? Oh bother! It’s everywhere, isn’t it, I can even see it on your face.”

Crowley pulled a displeased frown at the thought of how smudged his own face must look, but this train of thought was interrupted by Aziraphale standing up with him still on his lap. Startled, he reflexively grabbed on and wrapped his legs around the other’s hips.

“Angel? What are you doing?” he asked, as Aziraphale began to move towards the stairs. Probably towards the bathroom.

Aziraphale didn’t stop but looked up at him, eyes twinkling mischievously in the way that made Crowley fall deeper for him every time.

“Well, I thought since this one is already beyond saving, we might as well take full advantage of the situation. And if you’d be kind enough to promise to draw it on again after, I might just be convinced to keep on the rest of the ensemble for you.”

Crowley’s mouth fell open, before he surged forward to kiss him again. 

His perfect, perceptive bastard angel.

**Author's Note:**

>  **1** Which meant he turned away grumbling, his tongue decided to go through a book’s worth of sailor’s knots, and his face flushed. [return to text]
> 
> Feel free to tell me about spelling errors, grammar errors and britpick. AO3 did a very weird thing so also feel free to tell me if you find any spaces where they don't belong.
> 
> Come visit my tumblr at [goodduckingomens](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/goodduckingomens).  
> Comments and Kudos very much motivate me, so please leave some if you had fun! Keysmash comments appreaciated for the true Crowleys out there, Extra Kudos and emojis, I am greedy and I will take whatever I can get!


End file.
